"Thank you," said the lady, and she patted his cheek.

She laughed.

Mr Gallup laughed, and came back to the affairs of the Golden Anchor,
busying himself in tying up her parcel, while he explained that
Eloquent was his only child.

Eloquent did not laugh, for she was going away.

Dada carried the parcel to the shop door and gave it to the footman.
He put it in the carriage, and held out a thin silken cloak for the
lady, which she put on. He covered her knees with a linen dust rug,
and smiling and bowing she drove away.

Eloquent turned back into the shop with his father.

It seemed to have got very dark and gloomy again.

"Dada," he asked, "who is that lady?"

"That," said Mr Gallup, loudly and with no little pride, "is Mrs
Ffolliot of Redmarley, the bride."

The customers were all listening, the four assistants were all
listening.

Mr Gallup held out his hand to Eloquent, and together they went through
the shop and upstairs into the sitting-room, that looked out upon the
market-place.

"Dada, is she one of the Classes?" Eloquent inquired, nervously.

"I believe you, my boy," Mr Gallup responded jocosely, "very much so,
she is; a regular out and outer."

His father went away chuckling, but Eloquent was much depressed.

He went and stood over against one of the portraits of John Bright and
looked at him for help.

"Be just and fear not," said that statesman.

"All very well," thought Eloquent, "she didn't pat _your_ cheek."

He went and sought counsel of Mr Gladstone, a youngish Mr Gladstone in
the Free Trade Hall, Manchester: "At last, my friends, I have come
amongst you . . . unmuzzled," said the legend underneath his portrait.

But Eloquent felt that this was just what he was not. He felt very
muzzled indeed. All sorts of vague thoughts went surging through his
brain that could find no expression in words.

"I do believe," he said desperately, "if she was to give the
whisperingest little call, I'd be obliged to go . . . and so would
you," he continued, shaking his head at Mr Gladstone, "you'd do just
the same."

He felt that, in some inexplicable, subtly mysterious fashion, there
was a kind of affinity between Mr Gladstone and Mrs Ffolliot.

Mr Gladstone would understand, and not be too hard upon him.

In the years that followed, he saw Mrs Ffolliot from time to time from
the window or in the street, but never again did he come so close to
her as to touch her.

Never did he see he